The last month or so has been a stunning one for stars behaving badly, full of revelations of new crimes and reminders of past misdeeds. 

From Mackenzie Phillips’s claims of abuse by her father, the Mamas & the Papas’ John Phillips, and the recapitulation of Roman Polanski’s crime of raping a minor to David Letterman’s considerably less nefarious act of sleeping with his female staff behind the back of his long-term girlfriend and now wife, we’re awash in celebrity sin.

But just to consider the last first – how come the fessed-up talk show host scored so much attention for so minor a transgression?

James Houran, a psychologist and developer of the celebrity worship scale, says it’s a matter of our bizarre double standard: we punish stars we esteem and affectionately tolerate those we hold in low moral regard. Go figure.

“We have high expectations,” he tells me, “for celebrities who have a clean image, but for those who don’t we are extremely forgiving. If a person has bad character, like Kanye West [see his interruption of Taylor Swift], we’re not surprised when they display bad behaviour and might even be disappointed if they don’t. When people have a stellar reputation, we’re disappointed if they display normal human behaviour. Letterman always seemed like a nice guy. If George Clooney did what Letterman did, that would be just living up to Clooney’s reputation.”

But if Letterman has so much to answer for, what hope is there for the likes of Roman Polanski?

The number of Internet postings vowing to swear off Polanksi’s movies forever is weird. But should the fact that he raped a 13-year-old girl affect how we view his body of work? Are we participating in his success and blotting out his foul deeds if we enjoy his art? Okay, it’s a bit of a pickle.

Sorry, Polanski’s story is just plain worth hearing. Taking into account the director’s lifetime narrative – from his mother’s death at Auschwitz-Birkenau to the brutal murder of his eight-months-pregnant wife to his crime and life in exile – adds to rather than detracts from the experience of his films.

The artist’s personal character determines the nature of the work, Edward Andrew, U of T professor emeritus and author of Conscience And Its Critics reminds me. And he thinks culture consumers should get enjoyment wherever they can.

Still, he can be ambivalent about some self-expression. “I have mixed feelings about Wagner, in that I do listen to him with enjoyment but I recognize that there is palpable anti-Semitism in the Ring Cycle.” 

San Jose State communications prof Stephen Hinerman tells me that “any time you listen to music or watch a movie, what goes into that experience is your prior perception of that artist as a person.

“How much can you put that aside? It became difficult to listen to Michael Jackson’s music thinking he might be a child molester,” he says. “Did I enjoy his music less? Probably not, but the thought kept running through my mind.”

It helps when a gross but gratifying entertainer is dead and you have no sense you’re encouraging them when you commune with their art.

I’m inclined to offer latitude to disgusting characters – but only selectively. Pop star Chris Brown brutally assaulted his girlfriend last February, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to contribute to his good fortune. Why am I not willing to defend his work as I am Polanski’s? Because his tunes, while infectious, tell me nothing important. 

But Superfreak, by the late Rick James, I can listen to, though with a shudder of revulsion. While doing so, I ponder the fact that, 12 years after the release of the 1981 track about a “very kinky girl,” James was accused of holding  two women hostage. Man, that song is catchy. It’s weird.

John Phillips might be equally remembered for scandal and for his music, given the nature of his daughter’s claims. According to Mackenzie Phillips, her father raped her when she was 19, and the two then continued a 10-year incestuous affair.

John Phillips died in 2001 and can’t defend himself, but he is now the guy who (allegedly) fucked his own daughter, and everything he did during his lifetime is tainted.

Interestingly, this has a certain appeal. I’ve found myself seeking out Mamas & Papas videos, watching a live performance of Monday, Monday, for example. I closely scrutinize Phillips, thinking, “So that’s what a guy who fucked his daughter might look like.” I wonder if his then wife and band member, Michelle Phillips, who has refuted the allegation, is now looking back at this period of her life thinking, “I should have known one day I’d be denying he fucked his daughter.”

I am not less but more intrigued.

At least one person besides Mackenzie Phillips, with her tell-all book, is hoping to capitalize on this effect. Attorney Jeffrey Greenberg, who represents Phillips’s estate, has announced plans to release an album of material recorded by John and Mackenzie.

Tom Hutchison, music business prof at Middle Tennessee State University, says it will probably sell. “People can’t get enough of things like that – they are curiosity seekers. They will try to read stuff into the music, looking for clues to the behaviours that were going on back then.”

So I’m normal. I might even buy the album. But would I plunk money down if he were still alive? Of course not. That would be sick.

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